


Hanging on the Telephone

by hinderants (smoken)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, M/M, meet cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 07:31:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smoken/pseuds/hinderants
Summary: “You spelt it wrong.”  Mary tells him.Brian smiles a little to himself, turns around to face her, Roger’s macchiato is tiny between his gangly fingers.  His grin is shit-eating, “I know.”---In which Brian is a barista and Roger is one of his most frequent customers.  A customer, that is, who is always incredibly rude and on his goddamn phone whenever Brian tries to serve him.  Brian resorts to spelling his name in increasingly absurd variations as vengeance.





	Hanging on the Telephone

**Author's Note:**

> Hii, I'm back with a new fic cause I thought ANOTHER coffee shop AU was just what this fandom needed. This is based off a prompt I saw on queenslasharchive which I will eventually find the link for. For those of you reading WWIBTTT, I PROMISE I will update that eventually, I just got a little sidetracked with this one. 
> 
> I haven't even read over this because I've been writing this for weeks and I just wanted to publish the bloody thing already so feel free to point out any mistakes.
> 
> Title from Hanging on the Telephone by Blondie.

“Yeah, hang on Fred,” he tilts the phone away from his ear briefly, covers the end of it with his palm. “Double shot macchiato, on soy,” before the phone’s been returned to it’s natural state, glued to Roger’s ear.

Brian scowls. There’s water dripping along his arm from where he’s holding his cloth a little more forcefully than he should. His other hand grips at the edge of the bench top, knuckles white and fingers digging into the stainless steel. He’d rolled up his sleeves when he’d first seen Roger’s unruly hair, black sunglasses, and that goddamn phone, through the glass doors of the entryway. He feels the urge to fold them now across his chest. 

Roger’s been one of his regulars for perhaps just over a month and his hatred for the man fosters with every visit. With every, “hang on, Fred;” every unsaid ‘please’ and every request for the most annoying coffee Brian’s sure he can conjure. Why’s this Fred guy so important anyway that he must be phoned every morning? And who the fuck needs soy for a macchiato, it’s got a teaspoon of milk in it.

Brian’s pen scratches against his notepad as he scrawls down the order, as if it isn’t committed to his memory. Roger’s back talking into the phone when he lifts his head again, isn’t even looking at him. “Name?” Just to be a shit. Brian knows the answer.

Roger looks like he might roll his eyes but doesn’t. He tilts the phone again, “Roger.”

Brian feels a little satisfied with himself and lets his lips smirk. Had it been a month ago, he’d tell Roger that it wouldn’t be long, that there’s some sugar at the end of the counter if he would like any. None of that had gotten a response a month ago, so he stopped bothering. 

Brian’s feet are perhaps a tad too heavy as he goes to the coffee machine, Mary’s watching him and she chuckles. Brian comes up next to her, face hidden from Roger behind the very much excessive stacking of paper mugs above the machine. He swipes a group handle from under the bench. “What,” he asks her, and the roar of the grinder masks his words when he shoves the handle under it. Mary gives him a coy little look as she fetches a carton of soy milk from the fridge at her feet.

“Lovers quarrel?” She asks and Brian feels a heat to his face that starts at his cheeks and creeps down his neck.

He ducks his head and the stamp digs into his palm where he shoves it against the grinds, harder than is strictly necessary, he might admit. “Sod off.”

Mary barks out a laugh that has Brian worrying Roger might find suspicious. The soft beat that follows it is soundtracked by Roger’s phone call, though, and he’s much less concerned. _Freddie, I told you to stop keeping all the good finds to yourself, we need something to sell_. Mary’s been working at the shop about the same time as Brian. He’d been delighted when she’d tapped on his shoulder at Imperial the day after his first shift. He twists the handle on the machine and pushes it taut.

“Oh come off it, you aren’t fooling anyone, loverboy.” Mary is also hellbent that Brian has an enormous crush on Roger. Brian swipes her shoulder with the back of his hand.

“I absolutely cannot stand that man.” Brian assures her, hushed and behind the safety net of the paper cups. Mary’s head shakes in a humorously disbelieving nod as she watches the gluggy off-white of the soy milk pour into the jug. “Just make it on full cream.” Brian mumbles, more to himself than anything.

Mary’s lips turn up at the ends. “You wouldn’t do that to your boyfriend?” She sounds aghast. Brian could hit her again.

The milk hisses as Mary froths it, he doesn’t bother to quip back at her over the top of it. He looks up at Roger again, he’s turned to face the window now, through the sliver between the tall and standard cups. Roger’s got one arm across his chest and one of his hips cocked. He does have a nice arse. Brian frowns at himself. _Too bad he is an arse_.

Brian scoffs as Mary skims off a dollop of milk froth, spoons it into the espresso with the precision of a three-year, part-time barista. She insists on running the pointy-end of the thermometer through it, and Brian doesn’t think Roger deserves the meticulous effort she puts into the little leaf she’s drawn. Mary’s about to hand it out, goes to take it to the counter. She stops when Brian comes around in front of her. “Wait, wait,” and she looks half intrigued, half bemused, when he takes it from her. 

It’s warm in is hands and he spares another look over at Roger. He’s cackling into the phone now, half bent over against a yellow chair. _Obnoxious prick._ Brian grabs the marker from under the bench and pulls off the cap. Mary peers over his shoulder, watches him scratch the letters over the side of the cup.

 _Rodger_.

“You spelt it wrong.” Mary tells him.

Brian smiles a little to himself, turns around to face her, Roger’s macchiato is tiny between his gangly fingers. His grin is shit-eating, “I know.”

* * *

It goes on for weeks. Brian’s always considered himself more competent within his scientific studies than any of the literary kind, but by god, he’s conjured more variations of Roger’s name than he thought possible. 

“Brian, you arse,” Mary had said to him the next day, watching him scrawl a black _Rogar_ across the cup. Brian had given it over with a close-lipped smile that scarcely concealed his amusement. Roger hadn’t missed a beat in his conversation. 

The day after that Brian was very much proud of himself for his messy _Rojer,_ yet he still hadn’t seemed to notice. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that his efforts had garnered any kind of reaction. Roger had stopped for a moment by the door, as he read the particularly creative _Roguh._ He’d only carried on with his phone call.

It had become Brian’s stubborn crusade to get Roger to correct him for it. He’s found himself waking up excited for his morning shifts, a new enthusiasm he’d never before associated with five A.M. wake ups. Sitting in his lectures, he scribbles different ideas of misspellings in the corners of his notes, and he can tell John’s getting a little bored of his sudden strikes of inspiration when they’re studying together. When he is working, if he lights up with an inexplicable brightness when Roger enters the café, then well, he wouldn’t tell Mary. Over the past two weeks, however, the most he’s received is a funny look from Roger, and that was only after _‘Rojher’._ Brian was becoming irritated. 

That was, until, exactly two weeks later.

“Hey, Fred, I gotta go, okay.” Brian’s still waiting for Roger’s shots to pour when he says it, his neck clicks with how quickly his head snaps up. Roger’s still got the phone to his ear; Brian watches his face flush a deep red. “Shut up, I’ll see you soon,” and apparently doesn’t wait for a response, swipes the phone away from his face. His pants go a little tighter when he shoves his phone into one of the pockets. Brian looks up again and Roger’s smirking at him. _Shit,_ and he fumbles with the milk jug that’s chosen this moment to teeter on the edge of the bench. He thinks, perhaps, that Mary’s also chosen this moment to turn on the heater, however, resigns himself to believe it’s far more likely that that heat is radiating from his cheeks. 

For all his struggle, Roger lets out a tiny chuckle. “How do you plan to spell it today?”

And really, this is what Brian’s been working towards for weeks. Roger’s finally taking the bait, finally acknowledging Brian’s efforts. “W-what?” He finds he’s dumbfounded, however. In the face of real confrontation, he’s a bit speechless. He hadn’t prepared for the day Roger _actually_ said something.

Roger’s come closer to lean over the glass cabinet of pastries, hands leaning him against the bench, chest forward like he might have some assets there. Brian hopes not. “You know, I’ve realised, you’ve become very familiar with my name, but you’ve never told me yours.” That makes him snap out of it a bit. He wears a name badge. Roger’s got on a grimy, smug looking smirk and Brian can’t let him win.

“Perhaps if you weren’t on that phone all the time.” He turns back to the machine, dips a steam wand into the milk with a practised and steady hand, side-eyes Roger.

Roger laughs, bright and too-loud like he had over the yellow chair. “Touché.”

He flicks on the steam wand. “It’s Brian.”

“Brian,” he doesn’t look up to see Roger’s lips pursed in thought. “Like, B-R-Y-A-N?” “Or B-R-I-E-N?”

“Very funny.” Deadpanned, as he pulls the milk jug out. 

Brian finishes his coffee and hands it to him with a neat _Brian_ over the side of the cup.

* * *

The next day, Roger comes in without his phone. He makes a big show of it, too, sauntering in, hands in his pockets. Brian turns away so he can roll his eyes but regrets it when he’s met with Mary’s wide grin. He’d told her about the conversation with Roger he’d had yesterday. He wishes he hadn’t. 

“Hi, Brian.” Bright sunny smile as he comes up to the counter. He juts out a hip against it to lean over sideways just a tad, folds his arms over his chest. It’s all very suave and Brian has to close his eyes for a moment to save him rolling them again.

“Soy mocchiato?” As he’s already scribbling down the order. It’s a habit, really. 

Roger steps back a half inch and laughs, quick like a bark. “ _Hi Roger how are you this morning_ ,” sarcasm dripping from his words. “ _Yes I’m great, Brian, thanks for asking_.” He’s still got the grin on his face. “Brilliant customer service around here.” 

Mary snorts louder than the hissing of the steam wands and Brian can see the laughter she’s trying to hide behind the cup stack.

Brian flips the page on his notepad, closes it up. He folds his hands in his lap, strategic emphasis. “Sorry, thought you only did phone conversations.”

Roger seems to perk up at that, stands a little straighter. “Well perhaps you should give me your number and find out.” Brian goes a sickeningly deep crimson. Mary’s just dropped a cappuccino all over the tiling. 

Any of his previous quiet confidence is instantly dissipated, he’s gaping a little. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Roger shrugs a little, comes back to lean his hip on the bench. “Worth a shot.”

Brian runs through the motions of making his coffee, hands it over without a word. “I like him.” Mary says as Roger’s pushing open the front door. Brian thinks he might quit.

* * *

The next day Roger complains that Brian had spelt his name correctly across his cup the day previous. “It’s tradition, Brian! You can’t start something you aren’t going to finish,” and, well, Brian’s never been one to turn down a challenge. 

* * *

A few days and a few misspellings later, Roger comes in with another bloke. “Hi, Brian,” as he holds open the door for the other man, like he’s a shy child. 

“Roger.” Brian greets him as he eyes the other guy. He’s a bit exotic looking, all raven hair and cheekbones, smiles at Brian though, close-lipped and friendly.

“This is Freddie,” Roger tells him, comes up to learn over the counter. Freddie’s a step behind him with his arms folded across his chest, looks a little amused. He and Roger seem to dress the same, printed blazers and corduroy trousers like they’ve stepped out of the seventies. “I told him about the cute boy at the coffee shop and he had to come see.” Brian’s a bit more accustomed to Roger’s charades by now, doesn’t blush as hard.

“Nice to meet you, dear,” Freddie says, cheeks sucked in and one arm unfolding to dangle at his side.

Brian doesn’t quite know what to make of the whole situation. “Ah, you too. I’m Brian.” He’s paused from thumbing in the price of Roger’s macchiato to the eftpos machine.

Freddie’s lips curl over and he’s smile at him more openly, shoulder brushing Roger’s when he goes a bit closer to him. “Yes, I figured that.” Which makes Roger giggle as well like he’s some schoolboy. Brian’s gone red again.

Freddie doesn’t order anything. Roger loops an arm through his golden blazer when they leave, stumbling out the door between fits of laughter and Brian’s thinks that surely that aren’t drunk at half-past-ten in the morning. Roger stops suddenly as the door’s closing and pops his head back through the glass panels like it’s an afterthought. He’s wordless when he throws Brian a wave, still being half-tugged along by Freddie. Brian gives him a head nod and a flick of his wrist.

There are steam wands still hissing where Mary’s making a coffee for some old man sitting around the corner. She’s got her head poking over the milk, on her tippy toes, but she turns off the steam wand to give Brian a look. “I call dibs on the friend.” And that’s it, Brian’s quitting.

* * *

“Brian!” Roger comes crashing through the glass doors at almost midday, three days after he’d brought Freddie to the café. He’s got a bookbag swinging under one arm and Brian thinks that’s a twig in his Hair. “I want a refund!”

He looks genuinely angry, pink cheeks and wrinkles between his eyebrows. Brian was hunched over the machine, neck crooked to watch the wet grinds fall where he was scrubbing them away. The handle of the brush is heavy in his hand and it skids to the back wall when he chucks it on the bench.

“What-“

“This is full cream milk! You know I get soy!” Roger’s quick to interrupt, and Brian can’t believe the audacity. He’s thrusting an empty paper cup under his nose. 

Brian’s eyebrows are climbing up his forehead, eyes a bit wide. “It’s a dollop of froth! You’ll live!”

Roger puts the cup down with an unwavering firmness that crushes the top of it a little. He’s got his head forward, his eyes set on Brian’s like he’s testing him. “I want a refund,” voice steady.

Brian grabs the cup from the bench to angle it at Roger. “You literally drank it all.”

“The customer is always right, Brian.” He’s livid.

“I don’t care! You’re not getting a refund,” and he must be getting loud because Mary’s popped her head out of the stock cupboard.

“Well remake it then.”

“No!”

The argument’s morphed into something of a stare-off “Brian, love, you shouldn’t argue with customers.” Mary chimes in and Roger grins at him in such a way that makes Brian think he might reach over the bench and sock him one.

“Oh, for god sake,” Brian grumbles and sends a deathly glare at Roger’s sweet smile.

He’s all annoyed huffs and clanging jugs as he remakes the coffee. He’d knocked over one of the stacks of cups and Mary had silently picked it up. Roger jumped when he slammed the full milk jug against the counter to get the bubbles out. It makes him feel a little better, but it doesn’t stop him pulling out the cup before the coffee’s completely finished pouring.

“Soy macchiato,” he’s a bit sarcastic with it, a lot annoyed, when he hands it over to Roger.

“Thank you, Brian.” Roger says with a tooth-rotting sweetness and a smile that’s got enough cheek to start a war. 

He looks at the coffee for a beat as he’s walking out the door. A cursive black _prick_ is scrawled across the cup.

* * *

It’s a week later and Roger has thankfully not asked for another refund since. Something’s off today, though and Brian can’t quite figure out what it is. Brian doesn’t really notice at first. It isn’t until a particularly obnoxious looking bloke comes into the café, looks like he’s spent half his day working for Google and the other half at one of those comic book conventions, fedora and a neck scarf. He orders a three-quarter strength flat white with two sweeteners, extra hot, and Brian thinks the only way he could be more annoying is if he was Roger. Then he thinks, _Roger didn’t come in this morning._ He’s got this other bloke to worry about, though, so he doesn’t dwell on it for too long.

Until he doesn’t come in the next day either.

Or the next day.

Or the rest of the week.

Brian isn’t worried, he’s _not._ In fact, he’s relieved; his most annoying customer doesn’t bother him anymore. But maybe he is curious. Roger hadn’t said anything to him, hadn’t acted any differently the last time he’d been at the café. It makes him feel a bit uneasy, but it isn’t worry. And he certainly, very pointedly, does not _miss_ him, as much as Mary would insist otherwise.

“Brian, you’ve actually been mopey,” she tells him, nine days after Roger had first skipped his morning visit. The café’s a tone darker than it normally would be, owing to the dull grey that’s filled the windows. It hasn’t yet rained but Brian’s got this sluggishness to him that makes him think it will. Everything’s a warm yellow where the little ceiling lamps are struggling without the aid of the sun. It’s actually quite nice, but if Mary’s going to call him mopey well then he’s definitely going to blame it on the weather.

“I have not.” He tells her as he’s shutting down the machine. It’s quarter to two and there’s only a couple of old ladies sitting at one of the tables. They’re regulars, here every Thursday, and Brian thinks that they’re quite polite for never disappearing on him like a certain other regular has. 

“You have,” and she says it a bit sympathetically like she feels bad for it. “Just a tad.”

“M’just curious, is all.” Brian assures, because he knows she won’t leave it alone. He turns to lean against the counter, palms against the edge to pillow the bottom of his spine, faces Mary where she’s stacking mugs away in the cupboard above her head. “He might be dead.”

She whips around to shoot him a deprecatory look, “Brian!”

Brian holds up his palms like he’s surrendering, “What! He could be!”

She purses her lips. “You miss him.”

He groans, longsuffering, “How many times do I have to tell you, Mary—”

“Brian,” she interrupts. “I think you should go see him,” and she turns back to the cupboard.

With a sigh, “I don’t know anything about him,” he reminds her. 

She puts the last mug on the shelf and the doors clap against it when she closes them. “You know he has a stall at Kensington,” as she grabs for the bucket of cloths. “Maybe you should go there.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Brian says and turns back to his cleaning.

Mary comes over with a sponge, swipes the group handles away from in front of him. She scrubs at them with a vigour that makes Brian a little anxious. “You’ll be the death of me, Brian May.” He throws his cloth at her.

* * *

Brian goes another week without ever seeing Roger. It’s becoming harder to pretend Mary isn’t at least a little bit right. It’s distracting, really, Roger’s toothy smile, bright bark of a laugh, showing up in his thoughts more regularly than he can excuse. He feels exhausted by it half the time, a constant tightness to his chest for supressing the niggling feelings in his gut. It gives him a headache if he dwells on it for too long. _God,_ he’s twenty years old, he shouldn’t have a bloody _crush._ He’s at the tail-end of his bachelor and when that’s coupled with full-time work at the café, he really doesn’t have the time. Also, frankly, he’s much too stubborn to let Roger win or suffer through Mary’s predictably incessant _I told you so’s._

It isn’t at the café that Brian finally sees him again. It’s a Saturday night, the first of the midsemester break. He’d felt it was a bit of a lazy one, had some textbooks and a lemongrass tea at the kitchen table, when John had dragged him out to celebrate with a couple of his engineering mates. The pub’s got a pretty good atmosphere, though, full of uni students, an old Nadal vs Federer game on the telly. He’s chatting with one of the electrical blokes about some shitty lecturer they’d had for an overlapping Physics subject back in first year. His cheeks are a little sore from laughing and Roger looks like a stark contrast when he spots him. He’s alone up at the bar, all limp hair and hunched shoulders. 

At first he’s got to do a double take because he can’t quite believe it. A part of him thinks he might have actually believed him to be dead. It feels a bit like seeing a ghost. John’s a giggling mess beside him, shoulders up around his ears and an unabashed grin. He’s got the rest of the group hollering at him when his beer paints across the timber where he’s spilt it and almost fallen from his chair. Brian excuses himself.

The seat next to Roger’s is wobbly on its legs to match how Brian feels. It isn’t really the kind of bar you should sit at, a few people lining up to be served around Roger, but there’s a young-looking kid wiping over the bench behind the bar in front of them. “I’ll have whatever he’s having,” Brian tells the kid, jabs his thumb at Roger. Roger who, for his part, snaps his head up to face him like Brian’s just jumped from a closet at him.

“Oh, Brian! What are you doing here?” The kid behind the counter seems to recognise the joke because he turns away to wipe at the other end of the bench. Brian gives him a silly little smile that his face never would have conjured three drinks ago. Absently, he thinks perhaps, this is the first time he’s really smiled at Roger.

“Friend dragged me here,” and then he plonks an elbow on the counter, unfurls his arm to point his index at Roger, palm to the ceiling. “Where’ve you been?”

Roger laughs at him like he’s far less intoxicated, and Brian thinks Roger’s little sly smile is just as nice as his toothy grin; tells himself it’s the alcohol that’s made him think that. “I thought you’d be relieved? Worst customer and all.”

Brian props open his mouth a little like he’s scandalised at Roger’s mimickery. “Shut up.”

Roger doesn’t really respond to that, sort of hesitates for a moment. Brain can see him deflate, watches his shoulders sag like they had been before. There’s a glass of auburn beer in front of him and he tags a swig of it. “Fred and I had a fight.”

Brian snorts, “And you just stopped drinking coffee?” He asks, and that could be three weeks of pent up emotion showing its face.

Roger thumbs at the droplets over the side of his glass. “Something like that...”

His eyes are downturned in a way that sends a pang of guilt through Brian’s chest. “Sorry.” Then quickly, “That was rude. I’m sorry to hear that.”

Roger just looks at him, laughs that bright sunny laugh. _Fuck_. “S’alright, I probably deserve it for being a prick at the cafe.”

Brian feels a little smug. “So you admit you were being a prick, hey.” With a tiny little smirk.

Roger throws an elbow into his side without any force to it. He puts it on the bench again to prop his chin against, looks at him Brian like he’s taking him in. It makes him feel a little self-conscious. “You’re pretty funny when you want to be, Bri.”

Roger’s just looking at him, chin on his hand, smile on one side of his lips. Brian’s got to take a bit of a breath. “I like to think so, yes.”

“Let me buy you a drink,” he says and he keeps his gaze.

Brian’s breath hitches and he’s very glad he’s got the alcohol to blame all his unbecoming actions on. “Only as compensation for your asshole behaviour.”

Roger buys him an espresso martini. Brian cackles at it, Roger’s eyes on him, smile too-wide like it always is. They move away from the bar after some increasingly intrusive looks from the barkeep, find some nook off to the side where there’s two chairs beside an upturned barrel. John’s still laughing with his friends when Brian looks back and he smiles at it.

Brian’s surprised when Roger tells him he’s studying biology, then feels guilty over it. He tells Roger of his astrophysics and he teases him for being “a goddamn genius”, but the more they talk the more inclined Brian is to think he’s selling himself short. Roger tells him about the market stall he runs with Freddie. He learns of Truro and Roger’s sister. Roger lights up when he speaks about his drums and listens intently when Brian tells him he’s built his own guitar. He’s a bit gone within an hour, a round on Roger then a round on him, plus the few he’d already had. 

“So what’d you fight with Freddie about?”

Roger’s smile falters a bit and Brian feels bad for asking. “Just some shit with the stall,” and he turns back to his beer, thumbs over the rim of it.

Brian takes a slug of his own drink, it’s beer this time and it isn’t mixing particularly well with the vodka. “It’s been, like, a week, must have been bad.”

Roger shrugs a shoulder, lilts one side of his mouth, “He’s just a real dick when he wants to be.”

Brian crooks his neck to look at him, hunched shoulders and halo of curls, small little smile that’s got his lips pursed. “Right,” he draws it out, a little disbelieving, a lot teasing.

Roger’s smiling again at that and Brian feels something akin to relief. “Shut it, you.” Then he’s finishing off the last swig of his beer, brushing his forearm against Brian’s. “You wanna go for a smoke?”

He feels a bit bad for ditching John for so long. When he looks over, though, his friend only shoots him a bit of a lazy smile puts up a thumb at him. He looks back to Roger, “Y’alright, let me tell my friend,” and puts down his beer.

John’s smashed. He’s doing some dance with his arms, coming dangerously close to the stack of empty glasses in front of him. Brian laughs at him all the same, puts his hands around both his shoulders where he comes up behind him. “Hey John. I’m just going outside.” Roger’s hovering next to him and he rolls a hand in his direction, “This is Roger.”

John looks at him with furrowed eyebrows and a flat sort of smile, “Like Soy macchiato Roger?” He asks and Brian winces a bit because he’s never said anything particularly nice about Roger to John. He slumps over the table to stick out a hand at Roger before Brian can respond. “Hi, nice to meet you.”

Roger comes forward and shoulders his way around Brian, grabs John’s hand and shakes it with the fervour of two drunk blokes who’ve just met in a pub. “This is John.” Brian supplies.

Roger grins. “You too, John.”

John’s almost falling out of his chair again, the table scrapes forward a bit when Brian goes to catch him. “Oh!” He turns to Roger, an afterthought, “John plays bass!”

Roger’s laughing again and Brian thinks it’s such a pretty sound. He’s grinning up at Roger, golden hair and a strangely patterned button up that really isn’t buttoned up. His mind feels a bit muddled and John’s still heavy in his arms where he’s struggling to get back on his chair, but he wonders in that moment, why he’d ever disliked Roger. 

“Perhaps we should start a band, us lot.” Roger says.

* * *

It’s dark outside the pub. They’d walked a bit down the way to some alley where there’s a single lamp glowing amongst the cemented buildings. It casts an orange shadow over the wire fence they’re leant on, contrasts with the blue of the streetlights. Brian’s sat atop the bitumen with his legs splayed out in front of him, hands in his lap. The denim of his jeans is getting a little roughed up from the road, but he figures it’s better them than his legs. There’s a chill biting at Brian’s skin where he’s only worn short sleeves. He’d regret his fashion choices, too, if it wasn’t for Roger’s arm rubbing up against his every time he takes a drag from his cig. His cheeks hollow with it each time and Brian can’t stop looking.

The alcohol’s worn off a bit now but he’s teetering on the more intoxicated end of tipsy. It’s nice, really, in a way that sitting on the floor of an empty alleyway at half eight on a Saturday night probably shouldn’t be. Roger’s got warm skin to match his smile a brain that comes up with words like _autothaumaturgist_ , which Brian thinks might have been an insult. He’s got pink up on his cheeks and he’s almost a foot shorter than Brian even when they’re seated like this.

Roger stubs out his cigarette on the tarmac when he’s done with it. He makes no move to get up, though. There’s a calm that stretches through the alleyway as they sit.

Brian’s watching some people milling about outside of the pub when Roger speaks. “I gotta tell you something.”

Brian turns to look at him, he only goes so far this time and peers through his curls, up through his eyelashes. Roger’s got a funny smile on his face and he’s shaking his head a bit. “Go on, then,”

“The macchiatos are Freddie’s.” Then he’s giggling. His shoulders shake with it and he’s leaning into Brian’s shoulder. “He agreed to do the early shift at the stall if I brought him his coffee every morning.”

Brian is decidedly not laughing. “You’re kidding.”

Roger shakes his head, his hair wild with it. “Nope,” he rakes his eyes over Brian, sends a wink at him. “It had some perks to it, anyway.”

He’s just grinning at Brian and Brian can’t believe it. He grins back. “What about that refund you made me give you?”

He shrugs, “I just wanted to see you again,” which has Brian barking out a laugh. It dissolves them both and their hands are at their sides, bouting fits of laughter, sitting on the road of some alleyway in North London. 

It’s a while before they calm themselves down and Roger ends up half sprawled over his lap at some point. Brian’s not sure how long they’ve been out here but Roger had finished his cig at least twenty minutes ago. Roger’s got one of his curls between his fingers, it tugs a bit where he’s winding it over his index. Roger’s own hair is draped over the denim of Brian’s thigh where he’s got his legs crossed. Brian really does think it’s quite a sight, Roger’s head in his lap, half lidded eyes and a lazy, drunken smile. 

Roger let’s go of his curls in favour of tracing Brian’s jawline. He smiles up at Brian, a small little thing, private. It’s different to his usual smile. “You never did give me your number, Bri.”

Brian smiles back at him, closed-lipped but fond, eyes crinkling. “I prefer real conversations, Rog.”

Roger turns his head a bit to side-eye him, “Sounds like you just don’t want to give me your number.”

Brian snorts at him. Roger’s smile widens and he looks at Brian more wholly. Brian feels his own smile falter. His eyes are staring into the blue of Roger’s and they’re deep and piercing and soft all at once and Brian’s very much lost in them. His lips are pink, parted so Brain can see the tip of his tongue. They’re a bit dry but then Roger’s licking over them and Brian can’t bring himself to care that he’s staring. It suddenly isn’t cold anymore, and he can’t feel the uncomfortable gravel of the road. Roger’s hair is a bit mattered but it’s soft where Brian brushes it from his cheek, moves it to curl behind his ear. Then he’s kissing him.

Roger’s lips are soft and languid against his. It’s a slow, velvety kiss and Brian finds he could stay in it forever. His neck’s craned a little where he’s leant over Roger, shoulders hunched in, but he’s got a hand at the back of Roger’s neck to pillow where he’s leaning upwards to meet him, another at his waist. Roger’s got one hand limply grazing the bitumen and his other buried in Brian’s hair, fingernails in his scalp like he’s clawing him closer. 

When Brian pulls away he’s breathless and stunned and suddenly far more sober. Roger looks like he isn’t breathing and his lips are pink and supple and they’re parted and glistening. He looks gorgeous under the yellow glow of the street lamp and Brian can’t take it so he kisses him again. 

* * *

Roger’s wearing a shirt with a gold swirly pattern on it when he comes into the café on Monday. His hair’s lighter than usual and it blows a little dishevelled with the wind. Brian’s never been so relieved to see it. He comes up to the counter a bit sheepish looking, his hands behind his back and a look beneath his eyelashes. He orders Freddie’s macchiato and Brian thinks they must have made up. 

Roger leans over the bench to watch Brian work and they chat idly, but they don’t speak about the pub and Brian thinks it might be Roger giving him an out, if he wants it. He very much does not want it. When Brian hands over the coffee it’s with his number scrawled across the side of the cup.

Roger gives him a small little smile, the kind he’d given him two nights ago. “See you tomorrow, Bri.”

Brian watches him go and waits for him to notice his handwriting. His lips turn upwards at the exact moment he does. Roger stops by the door, turns around with a grin that splits his face. Brian grins right back, sunny and bright yellow. “Call me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Please leave kudos and a comment because I genuinely survive off of them. Come visit me on [tumblr](https://squeaky-deaky.tumblr.com/) and drop me a prompt or a headcannon or just some thoughts if you like!


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